The problem was to prove it, or alternatively, to force a confession from Warren Perry. Neither seemed an easy task, and the sheriff consoled himself with the observation that Perry was just the sort of man to suffer from a guilty conscience. If he only waited it out, the schoolteacher would slink across the driveway and give himself up in Hale’s kitchen.
Therefore the sheriff didn’t trouble himself much on Monday. He took the girl’s photograph to the camera store to have copies made, prepared evidence for the following day’s inquest, and spent the afternoon on the north side of town, questioning the impoverished inhabitants about Margaret Larkin and the fishing hearse that had gone by on the afternoon of her death. No one besides Nina had seen the girl or the vehicle. After four o’clock he sat at his kitchen table, leafing through the afternoon newspaper, wishing that Belinda would return from the Redfields’, and half expecting Warren Perry to knock at the back door with a signed confession.
Chapter 19
Beyond the Larkin farm, there is not another dwelling, not another structure of any sort, until well after you pass the Alabama border. The road narrows and winds, and in all but the middle few hours of the day is shaded by the immensely tall pine trees that crowd in on either side. This is virgin timber, practically the only stand left in this vast area of pulp wood logging.
The land here is high and does not drain steeply into the Styx, but rather falls slowly westward into the Perdido, miles distant. The floor of the forest is soft and spongy in centuries of undisturbed pine needles. Stunted wild dogwood alone survive, in scattered specimens, beneath the high shading canopy of evergreen boughs. Here and there, where small fires set by lightning have burnt off a few acres, trees of other species have grown up, only just managing to establish themselves before the pines encroach once more.
Three miles from the Larkin house is a particularly splendid live oak, set in the midst of this pine forest. Its circumference is more than two hundred feet, and its height nearly fifty. The lower branches on the trunk are so massive that the extremities drag the earth, forming a protective lush umbrella. Even on hottest days this interior space around the black trunk is cool. In all the panhandle of Florida no place is more remote and sheltered than this green hovel beneath the curving dank, moss-strewn branches of this tremendous oak.
The tree is known, however, for a small massacre took place there in 1809. The county historical commission has wanted to erect a plaque there, but no one can decide whether it was the Indians who killed the Spanish settlers, or Spanish who killed the Americans, or Americans who killed the Indians. In dry weather, an old trace can be discerned which leads meanderingly from the highway to the live oak.
In this green-lighted space, late in the afternoon following Margaret Larkin’s funeral, and while the sheriff sat at his kitchen table wondering where his daughter might be, Belinda Hale rolled naked on a lime-colored blanket. Her cheerleader outfit lay neatly folded atop her shoes a few feet away.
Silent, sitting with his knees tucked up beneath his chin, smoking a cigarette, and also naked, was Nathan Redfield.
Belinda sat up suddenly, twisted her neck around and tried to examine her shoulder blade. “Nathan!” she said petulantly: “I do believe your teeth met under my collarbone! You bit me all over! This time tomorrow, I am gone look like a road map. I’m gone have to fell Daddy that I got trapped at the bottom of a ten-girl pyramid at cheerleader practice.”
“Your daddy is not gone see all those bruises,” said Nathan, He stared directly ahead of him, at the vast black trunk of the tree.
“Well,” said Belinda, pouting to get his attention! “Somebody else might.”
Nathan stubbed cut his cigarette by the side of the blanket. In a voice so low Belinda had trouble making out the words, he said: “You better be making a joke, girl. I ever find that’s true, and the headlines are gone read: 'Cheerleader smothered to death with her own pompoms.’ ”
“Nathan,” she said: “I was only kidding, it’s just that I’m not gone be able to wear a bathing suit for the next five days and four nights.”
They said nothing for the next few moments. Belinda stretched lazily on the blanket, staring upward into the black branches, the green coarse leaves, the hoary Spanish moss.
“What time you suppose it’s getting to be?” said Nathan. He had pulled a small bottle of bourbon from the pocket of his discarded jacket, and was now and then sipping at it.
“I don’t know,” said Belinda, her eyes closed, “I suppose—Hey!”
Nathan looked slowly over. “What is it?”
Belinda sat up hastily. “Something dripped on me.” She brushed liquid from her lashes, and smelled gingerly the fingers that had been stained black. “Just water, I guess, I didn’t know that moss—” She lifted her head back to stare up into the branches of the tree, no more then ten feet above her, and gently curving toward the ground.
“God, Nathan!” she shouted, and jumped toward him with such force that she knocked him off the blanket onto the soft earth. He slapped at her, and cried “Goddamn it, Be—”
“Nathan!” she cried: “Somebody’s up there in that tree. I saw somebody looking down at me. There’s somebody right up on that big branch!”
She clung to him.
He brushed her off, stood, and staggered backward. He stared upward at the large limb above them. He moved quickly around trying to see along its whole moss-shrouded length.
Belinda,” he said after a moment: “I don’t see anything. What’d you see? You didn’t see anybody. You—”
“Nathan!” she interrupted him: “Somebody was looking down from that branch. Somebody was up there on it. There was this face looking down.”
“Well, who was it then? I mean, what’d he look like?”
Nathan continued to dance around naked, staring up into the mass of rotting wood and dank foliage. Belinda struggled into her clothing, but her shaking fear made this a difficult operation.
“It wasn’t a man,” she said, “it looked like a woman—”
Nathan stopped dead at this. He looked at Belinda caustically. “Belinda, there’s no woman in that tree,” he said quietly. “There’s nobody in that tree at all, and there’s for sure no woman up there. You saw something. The moss probably, the light’s so dim under here, the moss can look like just about anything you want it to.”
“Nathan,” she squealed: “I saw something up in that tree. Somebody up in that tree dripped water on me, and then I looked up and I saw her staring down at me and I don’t care if you believe me or not, I just want to get the hell out of here, and I would appreciate it to no end if you would put down that bottle of bourbon and put your clothes back on.” Already she was folding the blanket up, and pointedly did not look up into the space above her head.
Nathan, with nervous haste that belied his assertion that Belinda’s imagination alone had been at work, stepped into his clothes. Less than a minute later, they pushed through the screen of leaves into the pine forest proper, and breathed more freely.
On her own, Belinda would have run toward her car, parked a hundred or so yards from the road, next to Nathan’s International Scout; but Nathan, to show his fearlessness, insisted on walking an unnatural leisurely pace toward the highway.
They moved across the carpet of pine needles without speaking; Belinda pressed herself against Nathan’s side and glanced warily behind her at the great live oak they had just left. It stood grotesquely vast and darkly gleaming in the small clearing among the pines. She had been beneath it before, but for the first time understood why it was rumored to be haunted.
They followed the track, which was plain enough, but the cars seemed farther away; both expected them to come into view with every step forward. But five paces ahead, ten, it was still only darkening forest around them.
Gradually, Belinda became aware of a sound that grew beneath the slight noise of their shoes on the soft earth; a melodious swish, low pitched and only slightly varying in intensity, as of
an oar turned idly in the calm surface of a sheltered lake. The noise was, if nothing else, decidedly liquid.
“Nathan,” she whispered: “What’s that?”
Nathan didn’t answer, but Belinda felt cold perspiration on his forearm. She glanced up at his face, found it set and troubled. He said nothing.
The noise grew louder, and Belinda tried to think what could create the sound of water being whipped among the trees. It seemed to come closer; she stared wildly to the right of her, and abruptly changed her position, stumbling, to put Nathan between herself and the sound.
“Goddamn it,” hissed Nathan, “where the hell is the Scout?”
“We’re not going the wrong way, are we?” demanded Belinda in a faltering voice: “We didn’t go the wrong way from the tree, did we?”
“No, we’re right,” he growled, “but where the hell is the Scout?”
It was dusk in the forest; now Nathan hurried along with ample strides, and Belinda had almost to run to keep up with him. “Nathan,” she whispered, “I am just about out of my wits. What is making that sound?”
Now the noise was directly behind them, low but unfaltering, slightly pulsating with a rhythm that seemed to match their fear. Belinda skipped forward ahead of Nathan, letting go his arm.
“Hey, wait up!” he called hoarsely and pushed on. He tripped over an exposed root and fell, spilling the loose clothing and blanket that he had been carrying.
Belinda looked around in terror; the sound had suddenly decreased but hovered among the tree trunks, in the thick green air twenty perhaps thirty feet back. She glanced that way wildly, but saw nothing. She felt that something hid behind one of the slender pine trunks— but what could be that thin? She lurched back to Nathan, dragged him to his feet, and gathered what had been dropped. “God,” she cried: “Nathan, let’s get the hell out of this place!”
Nathan broke into a run down the path, but he could hear that terrible wet swishing move forward too, volume increasing with speed. Belinda staggered behind.
He stopped short, and she collided with Mm. “Nathan—”
He pointed ahead: A hundred feet away were the Scout and the powder-blue Volkswagen. The glistening metallic colors were oddly reassuring in this dim forest of muted green and brown. “Thank God!” cried Belinda, and they hurried forward.
They fell panting against the high hood of the Scout. Belinda glanced around. “It stopped following us. After we saw the cars, the sound stopped. Nathan, what was it?”
“It wasn’t anything,” he said harshly, “You just got scared, that’s all, because you’re afraid of the woods when it’s getting dark.”
“Listen, Nathan Redfield, back there you were so scared your drawers were drooping—now let’s get out of here!”
He nodded: “You go first, I’ll be right behind you. But don’t you start off till I get in the Scout, and get it started, you hear me?”
Belinda climbed into the front seat of the VW; but suddenly she jumped back out. “Nathan!” she cried again: “This seat is soaking!”
“What!” he cried in irritation at this delay. He leaned into the car, and felt the seat. Belinda was right: when he pressed his hand against the fabric, water squeezed up and wet his fingers. They came away black and smudged.
“Goddamn, Belinda,” he said in exasperation: “I don’t know what it is, just put something down on it, and get in, and let’s get out of here. You be careful turning, I don’t want to have to stick around trying to unlock your bumper.”
Belinda threw the lime-colored blanket over the seat, and got in. She turned the key in the ignition, sighed when it started at once, and pulled on her lights. She turned to smile wanly at Nathan, but he was already in the Scout. He quickly turned it around on the light forest track, skinning bark from a pine with his bumper. He flashed his lights twice as a signal that she should drive on back to the highway.
Belinda moved forward slowly through the trees until she came within sight of the Babylon road; she wheeled out onto the pavement without looking for oncoming cars. Nathan was less than twenty feet behind her, desperately guzzling the last of the bourbon—for even as he had put the vehicle into forward gear after turning around, he had heard and felt that liquid swish against the side of the Scout. Something had tried the handle of the locked door across from him, something that could not be seen when he stared wildly through the passenger window.
Part IV
Out of Black Water
Chapter 20
The inquest into the death of Margaret Larkin went off easily enough. Jerry testified, and was followed by Warren Perry, who bore the hard gaze of Ted Hale throughout his evidence. Ed Geiger, Hale, and, at the last, Dr. Everage went to the stand. There was commotion throughout the courtroom when Everage testified that the victim had been pregnant at the time of her death. Jerry blushed and stared down into his lap; Warren’s mouth fell open, and would not shut.
In ten minutes, the jury brought in a verdict of homicide by person or persons unknown.
Afterward, Jerry accompanied the sheriff back to the town hall and sat alone with him in his office.
“How’s your grandmother?” said Hale.
Jerry paused before answering: “All right, I guess. About as well as can be expected right now. She’s out at the house with the Scouts. Picking’s just begun.”
“Did you tell her about Margaret’s being pregnant?” Jerry nodded: “She didn’t believe me though, and I didn’t push it. It’s just as well that she doesn't. She probably realizes it’s true, but it’s easier for her if she denies it to herself for a while.”
Hale nodded sympathetically.
“But I tell you something, sheriff—”
“What?”
“She’s still mad at you for not arresting Nathan Redfield. She’s still convinced that Nathan killed Margaret, and that he’s trying to get us out of town. Somebody from the bank called up at the house this morning and asked about the loan payments again.”
“It wasn’t Nathan, though?”
Jerry shook his head: “No, but It’s Nathan’s bank, and they wouldn’t have called without Mm telling them to.”
''You don’t know that. Listen, Jerry, you tell me straight out now: What is it that you think about all this?”
Jerry paused, then he shrugged: “I don’t know. Grandma and I just want the same thing. We want to know who it was that murdered Margaret on the bridge, and then threw her in the river.”
“So do I!” cried Hale: “But you’re not going to tell me that you’re starting to believe what your grandmama’s been saying about Nathan Redfield, are you?”
“Nathan Redfield nearly beat Shirley Blaine to death in a drainage ditch. She’s still got one leg that’s shorter than the other.”
The sheriff looked disconcerted. “That was fifteen years ago. You were too young to remember that right. Besides, he didn’t beat her 'nearly to death.’ They were drunk, both of ’em, and he fell on top of her in the ditch, that’s all.”
“I don’t know what to think, then,” said Jerry miserably.
Hale sighed. “All light, listen, you go on home now, tend to your berries. I'll be out there directly, and talk to your grandmother.”
Less than an hour later, Hale was out at the blueberry farm, sitting on the front porch at the opposite end of the swing from Evelyn Larkin.
“You’re no sheriff,” she accused him, “if you are letting Nathan Redfield prowl the streets of Babylon, after he went and murdered my little girl.”
“Miz Larkin,” Hale protested lamely, “you are in no condition—”
“Neither is Margaret. Margaret would have to claw through six feet of earth if she wanted to do something about it, and I just don’t think she’s capable of it right now. But I’m still here, and I don’t intend to let you forget about her just because it’s more convenient!”
“Nobody’s forgetting about Margaret, Miz Larkin, it’s just that right now we don’t have any idea who could have killed her.”
“Nathan Redfield killed her!”
Hale ignored this, and waved away a curious Boy Scout who had come to the front of the house. He scampered off.
“Listen, Miz Larkin, I know that Jerry told you, and it came out today in the inquest, that Margaret was— going to have a baby.”
Evelyn looked away; her face had reddened “Well,” Hale went on uncomfortably, “I just wanted to know if you had any idea who the father might be.” “There wasn’t any father, because there wasn’t going to be any baby,” said Evelyn: “Fourteen-year-old girls don’t get pregnant.”
“Do you think it could have been Warren Perry?” Evelyn’s eyes widened, and her voice went hard: “You think it was Warren Perry that killed Margaret, Jerry said you were asking about him the other day. Warren Perry is the sweetest boy in the world outside of Jerry, and you are a despicable man to try to pin this on him, when if you would sit still for five minutes, you’d know it was Nathan Redfield that did it. Warren Perry wouldn’t squash a boll weevil, and Margaret thought the world of him. It’s just because Warren is so good to his mother that you're on to him like this; and it’s because Nathan Redfield is your friend—and because he’s got all the money in the world —that you won’t do anything about it!”
“Miz Larkin—” Hale protested in a low voice.
Evelyn rose from the swing. Her eyes glistened with hot tears: “Nathan Redfield is not gone get away with this, so when you go to report to him, as I am sure you’ll do as soon as you leave here, you tell him that I am hiring a lawyer to charge him with murder. You won’t look for proof, but our lawyer will. And if he won’t, I’ll do it myself. If it comes to it, Jerry will tie a rope to my waist, and sink me in that river, and leave me there till I bring up the evidence that will prove that Nathan Redfield caused my little girl to die.”